And through their veins in ice and fire
by EFAW
Summary: In which Wes is an angel, Travis is a demon, and they have an Understanding. Nothing is the same, but nothing is really all that different. Good Omens AU, Wesvis, Oneshot.


**Summary: **In which Wes is an angel, Travis is a demon, and they have an Understanding. Nothing is the same, but nothing is really all that different. Good Omens AU, Wesvis, Oneshot.

**Warnings: **Good Omens!AU, except it really has nothing to do with Good Omens at all, so there's that. Demon!Travis, Angel!Wes. Wesvis. Some torture.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**Edited and Beta'd only by myself. If you have never read **_**Good Omens **_**by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, you should, because it's amazing.**

**Enjoy!**

**OOOO**

**And through their veins in ice and fire**

"_Why are we talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides. We know that."_

—_Neil Gaiman, Good Omens_

**XXXX**

Once a year, Travis and Wes take four days off work to write up their reports. There's really no reason for them to get together so often—Travis knows that if they filed their reports once a decade, no one Upstairs or Downstairs would care—but Wes is meticulous and punctual and Travis isn't going to complain because he gets a four-day vacation every twelve months. (Besides, it's not like Travis actually _sends_ most of his reports, because he's a lazy bastard and being so efficient would raise questions, and if his superiors got wind of the fact that he's slumming with an angel they'd probably yoink him back Downstairs in an instant for some _rehabilitation, _which, no thank you.)

When Travis picks the place, he has a pattern. He likes to go to places that are loud, bright, flashy, full of life. They're also places Wes tends to hate with a passion, but they drew up this plan two and a half millennia ago and the plan says it's Travis's turn to pick, so they're sitting in the penthouse suite at the Venetian in Las Vegas.

Well, Wes is sitting. Travis is sprawled on the king-sized bed, wings stretched out to his sides, watching his partner. Wes is in the chair by the window, tapping his lips with his pen while he reads over Travis's report. His wings drape over the back of the chair, feathers clear and full of prismatic rainbows like pieces of glass, and he's let just enough of himself go that the air around him shimmers with the neon from the strip, glittering jewels of light surrounding him. Idly, Travis wonders what it would be like to run his hands through that sparkling light; would it be like standing in front of a projector screen, or would the fragments break over his hands like drops of water?

"You still have atrocious spelling," Wes says, breaking the dreamlike bubble surrounding them. Travis sighs and drops his chin on his arms.

"You've been complaining about that for the past nine hundred years. Let it go, man."

"I'll let it go when you stop misspelling words on purpose."

Travis grins into his arm. "You caught that, huh?"

Wes doesn't look up, but Travis can practically hear those blue eyes roll. "Of course I caught that, I'm not an idiot. And if you're going to add your many sexual liaisons into your report, at least be accurate and mention the two cases of infidelity."

"You keep track of who I sleep with?"

Wes hums and makes a note on the paper. "Of course I do."

Travis leers, flicking his tongue at his partner. "Why? Are you _jealous_?"

"Why would I possibly be jealous?" Wes asks, the soft rainbow glitters around him sparking orange with annoyance. "I'm just saying you need to be accurate."

"Accuracy is _boring_," Travis groans, rolling onto his side. He stretches his wings, one after the other, and says, "We should go _do_ something. We're in _Vegas_. We haven't been to Vegas in, what, seventy years? We should go out and have fun!"

"Accuracy is _important_," Wes corrects, making another mark on Travis's paper. He flicks one glittering wing dismissively. "You can go have fun. Though remember that anything you do tonight will go on the next report."

Travis groans and buries his face into a wonderfully soft pillow, muttering something about 'annoying anal-retentive party poopers'.

But he doesn't leave.

**XXXX**

Travis and Wes have an Understanding.

It's a much nicer understanding than their last one, which mostly consisted of a lot of fighting and battles whenever they came face to face. Those always seemed to end on a draw, because while Wes had a flaming sword at his disposal, Travis was very sneaky and also had a sword of his own. Plus, Travis had no compunction about fighting dirty.

And then one day, instead of whipping out their swords and fighting, Wes said, "This is ridiculous, we're not accomplishing anything, put that away you idiot, let's talk."

Travis still isn't sure how he ended up in that orchard drawing up their Understanding, but he's held himself to it ever since, and it's worked.

Their Understanding is based on this knowledge:

They both know that at this point, humanity is running autonomously without any great intervention from Above or Below. Humans are so very good at coming up with the most evil things in the world, things no demon would ever have the thought to come up with, because humans have _imagination,_ and that makes all the difference. But at the same time, humans are so capable of incredible grace, without ever being in touch with the divine. That's what makes humanity amazing.

Someday there will be a great battle between Heaven and Hell and the world will tremble and the final tally will be scored and blah, blah, blah, but until then the lines have been drawn in the sand and nothing they do will change it all that much. Oh, sure, maybe one year Wes will get a few extra souls in his basket, but Travis will get just as many the next year, so what's the point?

So instead of fighting each other or working their butts off to get a few extra souls, they let humanity run its course. Good souls go up, bad souls go down.

Well, Travis lets humanity run its course. Wes does his due diligence, because he's a loyal solider like that, but he only does the bare minimum. He did work extra hard all the time, back in the beginning when he thought it would make a difference, but…it really doesn't. So he mostly does enough work to put in his report and lazes about playing human the rest of the time.

And once a year, they go somewhere and compare notes. Travis takes credit for things in the newspaper that he had no dealing with, Wes writes down all the little things he did but twists the words so it sounds like he was working _extra _hard this year, and they both give it that personal flair (_"Convinced a murderer to ask for forgiveness"_ Wes's notes might say, while Travis will usually have something like _"Tempted sixty-two women to have sex before marriage"_) and then Wes goes over everything with a fine-tooth comb.

They both agree that humanity only needs divine (or unholy) intervention when the shit is really about to hit the fan. (Remember World War III? No? That's because a certain angel and a certain demon made sure it didn't happen.)

In this way, neither of them have to do much of anything, and they can just coast along while humanity heads towards its inevitable end.

It's a good Understanding, and for the past twenty-five hundred years, it's worked.

No one's noticed a thing.

**XXXX**

Travis comes back from vacation six hundred dollars richer, with three new acts of sexual congress to add to his next report. Wes comes back two hundred dollars poorer (because really, Wes is a crap gambler, it's been a few thousand years, when will he learn), but he managed to convince four souls to go to Gamblers Anonymous and talked one poor lonely sap out of killing himself, so he's walking happy.

"How was your vacation, boys?" Sutton asks. Travis beams and throws up a peace sign.

"Fantastic, captain! I won six hundred bucks, and Wes still sucks at gambling, and we were right on the Strip, it was awesome, you could see all the lights to the end of the street, and the bathroom had a tub the size of a swimming pool."

"Is that where you finally got your marriage officiated?" Kate asks as she walks by.

"We're not married," Wes says shortly, stalking to his desk.

"You keep saying that, and we still don't believe you!" Amy calls after him, and both women laugh.

Travis just grins.

**XXXX**

The thing is, Travis kind of likes humanity.

It's a major failing in a demon, he knows, but it's true. They're all amazing, in their own little ways. They live such short little lives, but they pack so much adventure and emotion and _life_ into it. Travis can't think of a single demon who would be able to do the same if they only have sixty-seventy-eighty years to live.

Oh, sure, they're wrecking the planet they live on, stripping it bare and overloading it until it won't be able to sustain them, and daily they commit horrendous atrocities towards each other. But there are those who are trying to fix their ancestors' mistakes, and those who love with the fullness of their hearts and do their best to show kindness in a world that's falling apart. That's a quality Travis can admire.

That's it. He admires these little mayflies with their little candle-quick lives, and he cares. Which makes up for the way Wes doesn't really care at all.

Oh, Wes loves humans. It's probably hardwired into his brain somewhere, one last edict from their Father. _Love these humans I have created_. But it's easy to love someone and not like them very much. And Wes really doesn't like _anyone_ much. Sometimes it's a wonder he sticks around at all, surrounded by these constant humans with their constant chattering buzz. Wes could easily go slum in a cave in the Himalayas for a few centuries, but instead he sticks around in a city full of millions. Just because.

He either likes people a lot more than he lets on (unlikely, Travis has millennia of evidence to refute that idea) or he likes Travis more than he lets on.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to get bored. Hermit caves are boring, and at least Travis will play the Game with him.

**XXXX**

Wes started it, in about 200 BC in Mesopotamia. Travis's problem was that he cared, he liked and admired and _cared_ about these little human people, so when he saw a child in the streets with her hands out, he dropped a piece of the local currency in her palms and watched her run off.

And then the asshole angel on his shoulder arrived in a flap of wings, leaning over to whisper smugly in his ear, "Charity," and he made a ticking motion with his finger, like he was keeping score in a game he'd only just made up.

And, well, Travis really couldn't let that challenge go unanswered, could he?

The first time Wes ever lied, an awkward, painfully obvious thing that made the experienced liar in Travis cringe, he just grinned a snakey grin and went, "Lying? Really? That's one for my side, buddy."

When Travis played a European king, back when that was still a thing (because what's the point in being an immortal shapeshifter if you can't occasionally do things like that?) Wes marched into the dying king's 'deathbed' and said oh so smugly, "Future texts will call you 'The Compassionate One'. Do you know how many points I get for that?"

And when Wes learned about the library of Alexandria and spent nearly an entire year in there, buried in scrolls, Travis tsked and said, "Lust for knowledge is still lust, buddy, and that's one of the seven big ones, so I think I get, like, seven times the points."

Travis is sure there's an actual list on Wes's person somewhere, because Wes is methodical and detail-oriented and obsessed like that. Somewhere, Wes is keeping track of how many points Travis and Wes each have earned counting virtues and sins respectively.

Travis doesn't keep track. But he's sure if he did, he'd be winning.

After all, it's so much easier to fall than to climb up.

**XXXX**

They're sitting in Wes's car, watching a suspect's house in the hope that she'll leave and lead them to the murder weapon, and Travis is trying to make small talk. Trying only because Wes is being uncooperative.

"I mean, just look at this car," Travis says, running his hands across the dash. "It's the best of the best. Pretty sure that counts as greed."

Wes slaps his hand away before he can change the radio. He doesn't even look, the bastard.

"And you take an unholy amount of pride in your car's appearance," Travis continues. He lets out a whistle. "That's two of the big ones, Wes. You should start redeeming yourself right now."

"And I suppose my redemption somehow has to do with letting you choose the music," Wes says dryly.

"Sure does," Travis quips, peering through his binoculars. "Pretty sure generosity is a virtue."

"You are s—"

The rest of Wes's words fade. The binoculars fade. The car fades. Reality itself fades, then reasserts itself.

Travis blinks at finding himself standing in the center of an improperly-drawn circle, surrounded by a handful of people in old-fashioned hooded cloaks.

"Huh," Travis says, turning in a circle.

"Haven't done this in a while," Travis says, moving to the edge of the drawn lines.

"Well, I've got stuff to do," Travis says, giving the group a jaunty wave.

"See ya," Travis says, and he steps out of the circle.

Reality flickers. For a moment, Travis is in both places at once, standing at the edge of the circle in the warehouse _and_ sitting in Wes's car. Then things settle and Travis is back where he _iswasshouldbe_.

Back, and on the receiving end of a truly spectacular bitchface from his partner

"Really?" Wes snaps. "In the _middle_ of my sentence?"

Travis blinks.

Wes takes his silence as confirmation of his accusation. The angel huffs and stares out the window. "Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you."

"You know you love me," Travis replies automatically, bending to pick up the fallen binoculars.

"Where did you go, anyway?"

Travis hesitates, bringing the binoculars to his face to buy an extra second. If Wes didn't notice the summoning, that means it was specifically made for him. Which means someone out there knows his true name, and they have a way to summon demons.

And now they know his face.

That's not good. That's not good at all.

"Went to see if she's snuck out the back," he lies, nodding towards the suspect's house. He's lying on purpose, but he wants to see if Wes will call him out on it. Maybe Wes is just being intentionally silent, wanting to see if Travis will admit it on his own. Maybe Travis's suspicions are completely wrong.

Wes stares at the house.

And then he asks, "And?"

Travis's heart sinks.

Wes glances over. "Did she?"

Travis puts the binoculars to his eyes to block his face.

"No, man. Nothing happened."

**XXXX**

Contrary to popular belief, Travis doesn't lie all the time. He's a demon, yes, but that doesn't mean every word out of his mouth is a falsity. He actually tries to tell the truth most of the time, because Wes is an angel, and he's only slowly starting to come around to the idea of lying. (It's better than the beginning, back when Wes couldn't lie for shit and was way too literal. Travis likes to think it's his good influence.)

So the things Travis lies about are important things. He glosses over his past, because he's done some horrible things he doesn't want Wes to know about. Things _he_ doesn't want to remember. He deflects from his emotions because being too open is a good way to get hurt.

The things Travis straight outright lies about are the important things.

It's not like he _intended _to lie to Wes about the botched summoning. It's just that he knew how Wes would react, and there are some things he simply wants to try and figure out himself. That's all.

**XXXX**

There are rules involved in being on Earth. This plane wasn't made for the divine; it's why angels and demons show up so rarely in person. Much easier to send your essence out into dreams than it is to show up on Earth.

They have to wear human bodies. They can't let their true forms show for more than a few seconds. They have to obey the laws of physics, barring certain circumstances. They can't use holy or unholy magicks to get humans to do what they want. If they break any of the rules, the Earth itself has the right to kick them out. This world and this plane were made for humans, and that's how it's going to stay.

It's why none of his brethren wanted the assignment in the first place. A posting on Earth means having to follow all these rules and restrictions and no one wants to deal with _that_. Travis was just so desperate to get out of Hell that anything looked good.

He's still not sure why Wes left Paradise to slum down here. No matter how many times he asks, the angel always avoids the question. Still, it says something about Wes that he's the only angel who agreed to the assignment. Because the one thing he _does_ know is that Wes _volunteered._

That makes him different from all the rest of the Holy Host in the most interesting of ways.

That makes him _special_.

**XXXX**

The problem with trying to find a secret cult in the middle of the big city is that they're _secret. _It isn't like the old days, when he could just go busting down doors until he found something. Now he has to look on the internet and be circumspect in his searching because social media is everywhere and he has to make sure he doesn't get caught doing something _inhuman_.

Makes it tough, really. It's not like secret cults that summon demons are advertising in the yellow pages.

"What are you working on?" Wes asks, coming up behind him with a cup of coffee in his hand. Travis quickly shuts his browser window and smiles sunnily at Wes.

"I was looking up your birthday present. No peeking now."

Wes's brow furrows a little. "I don't have a birthday."

"Creation day, then." Travis shoos Wes to his own desk. Bemused, the angel goes.

"You're so strange," Wes grumbles, picking up a file.

Travis grins and goes back to his computer. "Better to be strange than boring, babe. You should try it sometime."

**XXXX**

The biggest problem, really, is that they've both become a little _too_ human. Oh, sure, there are _rules _and they have to _follow _them, or the earth will toss them back to their respective domains in a heartbeat. But they haven't just put on masks and pretended—it's worse than that. They've _acclimated_.

Travis is inordinately fond of small animals and children. Wes has a liking for fast cars and expensive clothes. Travis likes to speed on motorcycles, not because he's breaking rules but just for the sheer thrill of it. Wes has gotten _married_ four or five times. Travis goes around putting murderers away for life. Wes indulges in cooking and wine more than he should.

It's shameful, really. His demonic kin would be horrified if they saw him like this, so _human_. Wes's brethren Upstairs would probably feel the same.

There's a reason neither of them want to go back if they can avoid it.

**XXXX**

If the weirdo cultists get their hands on him, they're probably going to banish him. They can't _kill_ him, for obvious reasons (read: immortality), but they can definitely send him back, and they can probably make it so he can't return to Earth, if they have the right spells.

Travis _does not _want to go back. Not ever. He'll stay on Earth till the End of Days if he has to, to avoid going back.

He really, really hopes the cultists just want to make deals.

He also knows how incredibly unlikely that scenario is.

**XXXX**

"Do you get lonely when I'm gone?"

It's late, they're the only two in the bullpen, and Travis is pondering deep thoughts. It's not something he does often; he has way too much baggage, and this sort of metaphorical thinking could get bad very fast. But every so often it sneaks up on him.

Wes doesn't even look up. "Hard to say," he mutters, biting the end of his pen. "Seeing as you're never actually _gone_."

"Point." Travis leans back and stares at the ceiling. He and Wes are the only otherworldly beings stationed on Earth. Every so often another angel or demon will pop in, but they won't stay long. And when the other side of the world is just a few wingflaps away, it's hard to say they're ever _really_ alone.

"But what if I was gone? Would you miss me?" There's no real reason to think the mystery cult wants to hurt him or send him back to hell. If he's lucky, they'll just want to make deals. Travis hasn't made deals in a few hundred years—Wes's disapproval scrapes along in skin in an annoyingly tangible way—but it's just like riding a bike.

But it never hurts to be paranoid, and maybe Wes would admit he'd miss Travis. (Travis is not above fishing for compliments, especially because Wes's compliments are so rare.)

"Where would you go?" Wes asks, scribbling his signature on a report. Travis doesn't feel Wes has the proper amount of interest in his voice. An outsider might even say Wes sounds positively _dis_interested.

"What if I was recalled down Below?" Travis throws out there.

_That _makes Wes lift his head. He narrows his eyes; Travis feels vaguely pinned, the way he always does when Wes turns his scrutiny on Travis.

"_Are_ you being recalled?"

And Travis has to admit, "Not that I know of."

Wes stares at him another heartbeat or two, like he's trying to parse out all of Travis's secrets. Then he looks down with a huff and grabs another file. "Then it's not really an issue, is it?"

Travis rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that."

Minutes later, just as Travis starts fidgeting and thinking about calling it a night, Wes sighs and says, "It'd probably be a lot quieter, though."

Travis grins. "I knew you'd miss me."

**XXXX**

Travis knows three things for certain.

First, Wes _does_ get lonely even when Travis is around. Why else would Wes bother to get married every few centuries if not for someone to be with? (Travis thinks his own method of companionship is much more efficient. Wes isn't convinced.)

Second, Travis would miss Wes. If Wes ever went back Upstairs—because he was bored, because he was recalled, because he just didn't want to deal with humans anymore—Travis would miss him like crazy. Just thinking about it makes him lonely.

Third, Travis will never, ever, ever tell Wes that.

**XXXX**

Travis is impatient. He wants to spend his life _doing_ and _going_, not sitting around waiting. Sure, he's immortal, but that just means there's more time to pack everything in. Humans are constantly coming up with more ways to distract themselves, and Travis wants to experience them all.

He doesn't know how humans can be patient in the slightest. Travis has eternity and it doesn't seem enough time; the mayflies have less than a hundred years to _live_. How can they just sit there?

It's because of this impatience to experience and live and move that Travis tends to let things slip away. He doesn't _forget_ about it, he just…doesn't think about it.

Like the cultists. When five months pass with no sign of them, Travis starts to think that maybe they've given up. Erroneous, maybe, and lacking any proof, but why would they do _nothing_ for five months if they could do something instead?

Travis tends to think everyone is as excitable as him until proven otherwise. With no other proof, he decides the cult gave up and he lets his guard down.

In hindsight, it's really his own damn fault what happens next.

**XXXX**

They've just closed their case, a double homicide involved an underground fight club, rigged tournaments, and identical twins. Wes goes home to count his ties or whatever he does to relax, and Travis heads out to the bars.

He's not there more than thirty minutes when a cute brunette slides onto the stool next to him. They strike up a conversation; her name is Meredith, she's an aspiring artist-slash-waitress, and she's about as interested in a relationship as Travis is. It's perfect. They go to his place without further ado.

"Being a cop sounds so stressful," she says when they get inside. She gives him a teasing smile and shrugs off her coat. "You know, I give pretty good massages."

"Yeah?" Travis purrs, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Oh yeah." She leans up against him with a wicked sort of grin. "I'm told I have magic hands."

"That," Travis leans down to kiss her, "sounds absolutely _delightful."_

Meredith pulls away with a giggle. "Go take off your clothes and lie down. I'll find some oil and show you what I can do."

Travis likes the sound of that, especially if it involves no clothes. He strips quickly, listening to her rummaging in his kitchen, and by the time she comes back he's stretched out on the bed.

"Mm-mm, isn't this a sight to see." The bed dips as she crawls on, climbing up to straddle his waist. Something nicely warm is set in the small of his back.

"Just oil," she tells him when he cranes his neck to peek. With a playful swat to the back on his head, she tells him, "Lie down and relax. This won't hurt a bit."

There's not a lot of talking after that. Moaning and pleased groaning, yes, but not so many coherent words. Meredith is right; she _does_ have magic hands. She can knead even his tensest muscles into putty, and the oil leaves a lingering trail of warmth across his skin. It's almost enough to put him to sleep.

"How do you feel?" she purrs into his ear, running her wonderful hands down the center of his back.

He grins up at her. "Like a new man." Twisting around, he grabs her arms and flips them over. "I wonder what else your magic hands can do."

She just grins an invitation up at him.

Travis takes it.

The sex is good, extremely enjoyable as always, but it's the massage that lingers in his mind. Long after the oil has dried, Travis still feels the warmth of it on his skin. It sends him into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

**XXXX**

When he wakes, Meredith is gone, as he usually prefers. But there's not even a note, and he's a little disappointed. He still doesn't want any sort of relationship, but he wouldn't mind indulging in Meredith's magic hands again.

He still feels that tingle of warmth all the way to work.

Magic hands _indeed_.

**XXXX**

Wes gives him a dark look when he sits. "You're being _annoying_," he announces.

"What? What did I do?"

More glowering. "You're wearing you're 'I just got laid' smirk." He narrows his eyes. "I don't want to know about it."

Travis leans back, grinning easily, feeling just _oh so good_. "Her name was Meredith and she had magic hands, Wes, my god you have no idea—"

Wes throws a crumpled up Post-It note at his head. "Save it for your report, dumbass, because _I _don't care."

Travis does not save it. He continues to talk about Meredith and her wonderful hands and how _so damn good_ that massage was until Wes snaps and dumps a cup of coffee on his head. That leads to a fight and Sutton storming in to break it up, and by that time, Travis shuts up about it.

Besides, it's only fun to talk about his conquests to see Wes's reaction.

**XXXX**

The warmth of the massage fades by lunch, but the memory of it stays in his mind.

He does wish he'd gotten Meredith's number.

He doesn't mention this, because he knows how much grief Wes will give him over it.

**XXXX**

It's not just for his reports that he sleeps with humans. He likes _being_ with them, connecting, getting close. There's something wonderful about the messy intricacies of sex. It's just so _human_ and that's what makes it perfect.

He knows he has sex more than Wes would like, because Wes does _not_ like the messy perfection that is humanity. Travis accepts his partner's faults and goes on as he was.

Sometimes this gets him in trouble.

**XXXX**

The tingle starts between his shoulders, on the smooth strip of skin that lies between his wings. He ignores it until he's halfway to work, and then he can't ignore it anymore because black claws tear through his riding gloves.

By the time he gets to work, his mouth hurts because his teeth have all changed shape and don't quite fit the same way. Travis runs his tongue over his teeth, which are all incredibly pointy, and curses. A nearby window cracks.

Travis bites his lip to keep from cursing again, but that means his sharpened teeth tear right through his lip so he ends up cursing anyway. The crack spreads.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks inside. The sunglasses stay on; it's entirely possible that his eyes have gone slit-pupiled and golden-yellow, and he really doesn't want to risk the panick. Luckily, Travis can twist physics to his liking (something he refrains from doing most of the time, for Reasons, but this is an emergency) so he gets through the metal detector and past the guards without alarm.

Wes is already at his desk, because he's a pretentious asshole who thrives on punctuality. He doesn't even look up when he snaps, "You're late."

Travis clears his throat.

Wes still doesn't look up, the bastard.

Travis kicks his chair and clears his throat again.

Wes's eye twitches. Which, you know, that'd be awesome if that's what Travis was going for, but it's really not.

"Wesss," Travis hisses under his breath, the sounds distorted partly because of his teeth and partly because his tongue is no longer the right shape. _That_ gets Wes to look up, just in time to see Travis suck his forked tongue back in his mouth before anyone can notice.

Wes does not curse. He's an angel, that's one of the many things that he doesn't do.

But he grips his pen so tight it almost snaps in half, and for just a second his eyes flash with red light.

"Bathroom," he snaps, launching out of his seat and striding out of the room. Travis just quietly follows him.

There's no one in the bathroom, which is a good thing because it saves them from having to kick anyone out, which would inevitably lead to a lot of awkward questions. (Travis always loves awkward questions, especially awkward questions that make Wes flustered, but this is one of those situations where he just doesn't think he'd appreciate it.)

Wes pulls off Travis's sunglasses, clicks his tongue, and orders, "Strip," and any other time Travis would leer and make a suggestive comment. Right now, he just sheds his jacket and shirt and turns.

Smooth hands run over his back. Travis startles, not because he wasn't expecting it but because he always forgets how hot angels run. Travis always expects Wes to be cold, probably because he's a stick-in-the-mud buzzkill, but angels were forged in the hearts of stars, and it burns underneath the skin of Wes's human shell.

"There's nothing here," Wes says, dropping his hands and taking the heat with him. Travis tries not to be disappointed. "Are you sure it's there?"

"I'm not doing thisss myssself, Wesss," Travis hisses, flicking his tongue at the angel over his shoulder. Wes pulls a face, the one that translates to _Travis stop being such a stupid human child_. Travis rolls his shoulders. "It _itchesss_, Wesss. Like sssomeone is pulling on my wingsss. It's really _annoying_." He adds a curse for good measure, just to _really _show how annoying this all is, and six floor tiles crack.

Wes shoots him a dirty look. "Stop cursing," he announces, bending down to run his hands over the tile, mending the cracks. Because Wes is like Travis; they play human, and physics only cease to matter when it's an emergency.

"It _sssucksss_," Travis groans, slumping against the sink. His reflection looks back, the edges twisting as his true form tries to peek through and reality refuses to allow it.

"That's no reason to curse," Wes says from right behind him, and he's not lost control of his form, in the mirror his reflection is just as human as he ever seems. Those hot hands run up his back against, and Travis most definitely _does not _shiver.

Demons run cold, the warmth of heaven and the fires of God's will ripped away in the Fall. He just likes the heat of the angel's hands, is all.

(Travis is a master of lies. That includes lying to himself.)

"There's nothing here," Wes says, but before Travis can bitch at him about how _yes it most certainly fucking IS there_, Wes continues, "It's under the skin, you're going to have to spread your wings," and Travis swallows all his sharp words.

"Alright," he decides, rolling his shoulders. Wes obligingly steps back, and Travis takes a breath, trying to ignore the itching running across his entire form. He lets reality fade just a smidge, lets his human form melt a little, and he unfurls his wings—

Lightning rips through him, and he screams.

**XXXX**

Once, there was no pain.

Once, he belonged to Paradise.

Travis doesn't remember it, not really. Brief glimpses and flashes, verdant greens and shining light that warmed but never burned and the cool rush of spring waters falling over rocks.

The Fall sent him tumbling down, and the farther he descended the more memories he lost. By the time he hit bottom all he had left was a vague recollection of a time Before and an ache in his heart/lungs/throat for something he'd lost.

Once, there was Paradise, and there was no pain.

But that was a long time ago.

**XXXX**

When Travis opens his eyes, he sees angel wings. Arching up above him, glittering in the sunlight through the windows, like pieces of air made solid, a rainbow of colors cascading around him. For a heartbeat, there's a part of Travis that aches, the small part that remembers what it was like to be an angel, before his wings were stained with ash and sin.

(He pushes it away. It's better not to remember.)

There's no pain. Travis remembers a lot of pain. He's in the middle of trying to decide whether or not this is a good thing when a figure leans over him, glowing from the inside out.

"Travis," Wes calls, slapping his cheek, and heat blooms across his face. "Travis, I'll hit you harder if you don't start talking to me."

Travis blinks, peering through the holy light to the human form underneath. He grins when he makes out Wes's face, radiant in the light he's exuding. "I must be dead, because you're an angel."

The angel sits back, and the light dims a little. Something slides of Wes's face; if Travis didn't know any better, he'd say Wes was worried.

"You must be feeling better, if you're making stupid puns," Wes says, perching back on his heels even as he watches Travis like he's about to break.

"Hey, that's a classic line," Travis retorts, sitting up. The room spins, and he lists; Wes catches his arm and keeps him from falling. "Damn, what hit me?"

"I'll tell you later." Wes rustles his wings, feathers brushing with a sound like windchimes and knives. His eyes are intent on Travis's face, burning blue coronas; Travis tries not to feel uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

"How's your skin?" Wes demands. Travis feels around, thinks about it. Shrugs, and admits, "It's fine, I guess. I have you to thank for that?"

Wes doesn't answer, just furls his wings and lets the glow under his skin fade completely.

The doors burst open.

**XXXX**

Travis never thinks that he's human. He is infinite, and he will last until the stars burn out in the sky and there's nothing left. It's not something he can just _forget_.

Sometimes, if he's really being honest with himself, he occasionally wishes he were human. He watches these tiny little mayflies run through their frantic little lives, and he yearns for it. He wants to live, knowing that any moment could be his last, so he has to make the most of every second. It sounds thrilling.

He admires most the ones who put their lives on the line every day. The soldiers, the firefighters, the policemen and federal agents. The ones who put their little mayfly lives in the line of fire for the sake of the other little mayflies. Despite humanity's survival instinct—something so strong it's written in every cell of their bodies—they continually run into danger no matter the risk.

It's amazing.

That's what runs through his mind as the doors burst open and what looks like half the squad runs in, guns drawn. Beautiful little mayflies rushing in because they heard a commotion and someone might need help. It's the most selfless thing in the world.

And then the moment is ruined when Kate rolls her eyes and goes, "_Seriously_, guys?"

Travis tries to look at the situation through her eyes. Here's Travis, sitting on the ground wearing no shirt, with Wes kneeling over him. He starts to grin.

"Really?" Kate shoves her gun in her holster. "We heard Travis screaming. We thought Wes was murdering you in here. Instead you guys stopped for a quickie?"

Wes shoots to his feet like he's been electrocuted, his face bright pink. "We were _not_ having sex!" he denies, which only makes Travis grin more because that's not going to help.

"See, the more you say that, the more we don't believe you," Amy retorts, hands on her hips. "If you weren't having sex, why is Travis on the floor?"

"He saw a spider," the blonde snarls, embarrassment adding rancor to his words. "And he fainted."

"And he's not wearing a shirt because…?" Kate asks in an _I'm not buying what you're selling _tone of voice.

"I had to make sure he was breathing," Wes says tightly.

The two women share disbelieving eyebrows and lascivious grins. "Sure you did," they chorus. As one, they turn on their heels and exit the bathroom. Travis can hear them telling the officers outside that, "Marks and Mitchell are at it again."

Wes just flushes some more.

The rest of the squad files out until only the captain is left. Sutton looks at them disapprovingly, shakes his head, and says, "Save it for your off hours, boys," as he leaves.

"We were not having sex!"

**XXXX**

After the door swings shut, Travis snorts and pushes himself to his feet. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much." He gives the other man a saucy grin. "You know, sex with me would be kind of awesome. I've had a lot of practice."

Wes glares at him. "Shut up. I hate you."

Travis just chuckles. "Sure you do, angel." He stretches his arms, working out the ache between his wings. "Geez, that stung like a bitch. What was it?"

Wes's lips thin, and his eyes spark with red lights. Travis tugs his shirt on. "That good, huh?"

"That _bad_," Wes clarifies. He holds out his fist, opens his fingers. A glowing symbol appears, white flames forming lines in the air.

Travis stares at the holyfire sigil that reads _revealtruthemerge_ in a language that hasn't existed on this planet since a tower in a country called Babel fell.

"Well, that's not good."

"Not good?" Wes's hand clenches; the sigil winks out in motes of glittering fragmented sparks. "It's a bit more than 'not good', Travis. What if this had gone off in the grocery? Or at home? Or somewhere I wasn't at?"

"But you were here, so it's all fine," Travis points out.

"It doesn't _matter_ if I was here or not!" Wes snaps. The lights dance on his skin, darkening to an angry crimson, and there's a sound like windchimes and knives, though his wings don't manifest. "Someone got close enough to you to write a sigil on your skin in a language no one but us should know. We're _way_ beyond 'not good', Travis!"

Travis's shoulder's slump. "Yeah, I know." Because Wes is right. Anyone who knew to write that on his back knows what he is, _and_ got close enough without raising any red flags. But the only people who knew his face were those cultists from months and months ago and didn't they give up? and the only one who'd been that close in weeks was Meredith from the bar the other day.

Meredith of the magic hands, who'd spent an awful long time working on his back and gave such a good massage that the warmth lingered for half a day afterward. Warmth which was, apparently, a holyfire sigil burrowing its way under his skin to rest on his true form and tick away like a time bomb, waiting for the perfect time to go off.

Travis can put the pieces together as well as the next guy, and right now two plus two are adding up to a big bold four.

"That _bitch_."

Blue eyes snap to him, narrowing suspiciously. "What?" Wes is using his _I don't know what you're going to say but I don't think I'll like it_ voice. He's not exactly wrong.

"Let's go for a drive," Travis says abruptly, grabbing his partner's arm and dragging him out of the bathroom. Wes is too taken aback by the sudden change to fight him off.

"I don't want to go for a drive," Wes protests, making a concerted effort to douse the lights on his skin as they pass through the bullpen. "I want you to tell me what's going on."

"I know." Travis jabs the elevator button. "That's why we're going to take a drive. You love your car."

"So?"

"So," Travis gives the angel a sunny smile, "You won't murder me in your car. That'd be way too messy."

Red flashes across Wes's eyes, and his lips tighten, but he doesn't say a word.

**XXXX**

Angels are Order. They are made to be soldiers, to obey, and to form order out of chaos.

The Fallen are opposite. Instead of fire, ice. Instead of light, shadow.

Instead of Order, they are Chaos.

Basically, that just means Wes is completely predictable, like, all the time.

**XXXX**

"We need to leave."

And this is why he didn't tell Wes anything.

"No."

Wes's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Leather and metal creak. "It'll only take a few days to get our affairs in order. Then we'll just find someplace else."

"Wes. No."

Wes continues to ignore him. "We'll make it big. An explosion. You like explosions. We'll make it so big no one ever comes looking again."

"Wes," Travis says calmly, "I'm not leaving."

Maybe it's because he's so calm, or maybe it's the confidence in his voice, but Wes stops talking, gripping the wheel so tight he leaves dents. He asks through gritted teeth, "Why not?"

"Because." Travis leans back, props a foot on the dash. "I like our lives. I like being Travis Marks, and I like being partnered with Wesley Mitchell. We've got at least another thirty years in these lives. I'm not going to run away just because some freaks in robes got their hands on a spell book."

"It's not running away."

"It is and you know it."

Wes turns to glare at him. Travis looks at the road Wes is no longer watching and ignores the heat of the angel's stare. The car keeps driving through sheer force of Travis's will, since Wes is no longer paying the slightest bit of attention.

"Making a strategic retreat to get out of the line of fire is _not_ running away."

Travis scoffs. "Your little warrior mind can make all the rationalizations it wants, but it is, and you're wrong."

"Dammit, Travis!" Wes slams his hand against the wheel, and red lights dance overunderthrough his skin. "It's not _safe! _Someone out there is painting a target on your back! They will _exile_ you!"

Travis is always pleased when Wes swears. Words have power, and the curse of an angel can be very powerful indeed. Wes is generally so careful with his words; only Travis really has the ability to make the angel slip up.

Of course, being what he is, the curse slides off him like water off a duck. Travis has been damned for a long time now.

He leans back in his seat and grins lazily at his partner. "Are you worried? Is that what I hear in your voice?"

The dancing red lights change to a muted orange. That's fine. Travis can deal with Wes's annoyance a lot better than he can deal with Wes's anger.

"I didn't say that."

"I think you did…"

"Stop changing the subject, Travis."

"Wes. It'll be fine." Travis tilts his head back, slides his shades over his eyes. "We'll just do what we've always done. Find them. Burn the spell book. Make sure they never do it again."

"Because it's that easy," Wes snorts dryly.

Travis shrugs. "Why not?"

After a long, long minute, Wes finally turns his attention back to the road.

"You're going to get your fool self banished," Wes grumbles, clutching the steering wheel again.

Travis can't help grinning, just a little bit. That's _totally_ worry in his partner's voice.

"Then you'll just have to make sure it doesn't come to that."

**XXXX**

"Do you have protection, at least?" Wes asks a little while later.

"Of course I do, I'm not a mindless imp. I warded myself the moment I got home."

"Good, good." Wes taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, staring fixedly out the windshield like the stoplight will have all the plans they need to find the cult.

Travis picks at the hem of his jacket. "It probably won't do any good, though."

Wes's thumbs stop. "Why not?" he asks in a carefully controlled voice.

Travis sucks air through his teeth and tries to look nonchalant. "They kind of…know my Name."

There's a blast of heat so intense Travis thinks his eyebrows just burnt off. While Wes sits there gathering his composure, Travis checks to make sure his pretty face is still intact. Yup, eyebrows, check.

"This is bad," Wes grits out, and if Travis didn't know the lights on Wes's skin were harmless he'd be worried by how vividly red they are. "This is really bad."

"It'll be fine," Travis waves a hand, tapping his boots on the dash.

Wes gives him a scorching glare. "If they know your Name and use it, I can't sense it. I won't be there to stop them."

_Aww, you care_, Travis doesn't say, because there are times when that will make Wes get annoyed and there are times when that will make Wes blow off the handle, and Travis can in fact tell the difference.

"We'll figure something out." Travis leans back, closes his eyes behind his sunglasses. "We always do."

Wes takes a deep breath and doesn't say anything for a longtime.

**XXXX**

It isn't until the car has cooled down to room temperature that Wes suggests, "We could make it a really _big_ explosion..."

"Wes, _no._"

**XXXX**

In theory, now that they're both working on the problem, it will be solved in an instant and everything will go back to normal. They're always better when they're working together than apart.

Theory dies a messy death and nothing gets solved.

Wes is frustrated. He can't figure out how the cultists are hiding from him. To be fair, they both thought they'd burned the last spell books of this type four hundred years ago, so it's not like they've been tracking this sort of thing.

"They're warded. I can't find them if they're not _doing_ anything," the angel rages, pacing in Travis's living room. "Why aren't they _doing_ anything?"

"You're singeing the carpet," Travis says.

"Why are you so _calm_?" Wes whirls on him. He doesn't have his wings out, but going from the way Wes puffs up, they're bristling. "There a group of people out there who want to hurt you and you're just _sitting_ there!"

"They could have done something for months and they haven't," Travis points out.

"Which means they're probably gearing up for something _big_," Wes counters.

Travis leans back and doesn't let his unease show. The absolute last thing he wants to do is get banished back to Hell, but he's been looking for months and found nothing. At this point, Travis has resigned himself to waiting. They'll come for him; they already found him once (twice).

"You know what your problem is, Wes?"

"Oh, _do_ tell, Travis," Wes snarls, resuming his pacing. Travis eyes the singed carpet and wonders if this is something he's allowed to fix without repercussions. His security deposit is on the line here!

"Your problem is you angels never learned the meaning of 'failure'. All this pent-up frustration building up inside, not good at all."

"Because you're such an expert on failure," Wes grumbles.

Travis doesn't let his easy smile fade. "Once you fall out of Heaven, everything is small potatoes. It's kind of the biggest failure there is."

Wes knows he hit a nerve. Instead of apologizing like any decent person would, he skips right over it. "So what are we supposed to do?"

"We wait."

A muscle in Wes's jaw twitches, and one of Travis's couch cushions combusts. "That's a horrible plan."

Travis waves a hand and puts out the flames (and simultaneously decides that fixing his carpet will probably be okay. Repairing damage Wes makes has gotta count as exceptions to the rules, right?)

"Yeah, well, unless you have another way of tracking these guys, it's the only plan we've got."

The air literally shimmers around Wes, like heat waves rising off asphalt. "They have your Name, Travis. If they take you, I won't know."

"Oh, you'll figure it out."

Some of the heat in the room dissipates. There's a mildly desperate flavor to the air. "_How_?"

Travis grins and doesn't point out how worried Wes sounded right then. "Well, when I don't show up for work one day, you'll know to come looking."

Wes stares at him.

Then he throws a lamp at Travis's head. "I repeat, that's a _horrible_ plan."

**XXXX**

To be honest, it's not Travis's favorite plan in the world either. He's played the bait before and it's never fun. Also, he's impatient and hates waiting.

But there's nothing else they can do _except_ wait.

It's like teetering on the edge of a cliff without wings. They're both tense with a dreadful sort of anticipation. Wes hesitates every night when they separate, and every morning when Travis walks through the doors something visibly loosens in his shoulders. And Travis, who hadn't really been _too_ bothered before now (because he purposefully wasn't thinking about it), finds himself paranoid, constantly glancing over his shoulder and feeling like he's being watched (because now he's thinking about it all the time).

It makes them both short and irritable, with each other and with everyone else. Something's gotta give.

**XXXX**

And then it does.

**XXXX**

They take him on a Saturday afternoon.

Travis has just gotten home, he's put his gun and badge away but he hasn't taken off his boots, when there's a tug behind his navel. He looks up, startled, and then reality warps and he flies through space.

It's a much more violent summoning than before—he lands hard on his face. On instinct, his wings come out, char and smoke and shadow curling around him in defense.

There are whispered mutters and gasps. Travis looks up. Same warehouse, same cultists in stupid robes…but this circle is perfectly accurate. He can't just walk away this time.

Slapping on a grin, Travis pulls himself to his feet. His nose is bleeding from the rough landing and he thinks he bruised a rib or two, but he forces himself upright, wings casual and relaxed on his back.

There are twelve of them, arranged around the circle. Travis's eyes scan the painted symbols, mentally wincing. This is a _very_ accurate circle. He can't do squat.

The leader of the group stands at the Northern point, heavy spell book in hand. Travis turns his smile on her. "Hi there."

The woman mutters, fingers bent like claws as she draws white lines in the air. Travis catches a glimpse of _bindingchainsrestriction_ before she flicks her hand. The sigil flies over the painted circle and hits him square in the forehead, burning its way under his skin.

"Hey!" Travis slaps his hands to his head and doesn't show just how much it hurts. "That wasn't necessary!"

"It's said your true form can drive men mad," the woman says. That's completely true, so Travis just shrugs. "We won't allow you to change before we are done."

Travis checks and sure enough he can't access his true form. His wings are out, but only because they were already out. He's been tied to his human body, and he's completely powerless.

That's...a bit not good.

"I'm guessing you're not here to make a deal?" he jokes weakly.

The leader stares down her nose at him, already muttering and drawing another sigil in the air.

"We do not make deals with demons," a figure to his left hisses viciously.

The woman on the leader's right steps forward. "This is a cleansing."

Well, _shit_.

**XXXX**

Summoning demons is actually easier than it looks on TV. Get the right set of symbols, draw a warded circle, set the correct stipulations, and bam, demon in a circle. Even easier if you have the demon's Name written down somewhere. Sure, saying the Name will probably make your tongue burn like you've downed a bottle of the hottest chili sauce, but the demon will come no matter what wards or protections they have.

There are two types of people who summons demons: people who want to make deals and people who want to cleanse the world of demonic filth.

People who make deals are easy targets. They want something; power, fame, fortune, or any combination thereafter. There used to be all sorts of deals being made, back when people believed in that sort of thing (and also back when there were spell books, before Wes and Travis burned them because it was really _annoying_ having family popping in all the time and/or being snatched out of his mundane life to answer some pimply kid's wish for the girl or money or fame or whatever).

People who want to cleanse, on the other hand. There's a whole 'nother can of worms. Those are the _believers_, the ones who buy into the dogma and think demons walk the earth whispering their temptations and lies.

Nope. There's just the one demon wandering around, and he's not doing all that much to corrupt souls because people do a damn good job all on their own.

But he can't just _say_ that because the zealots, they won't listen. They won't believe a word that comes out of a demon's mouth.

Hence the massive book-burning he and Wes went on four hundred years ago.

If people can't summon demons, then they can't hurt the lone demon on earth.

**XXXX**

As has been obviously pointed out, they missed one.

**XXXX**

They take turns throwing spells at him. Some of the spells are flawless, perfectly honed knives designed to slice quickly and efficiently, sliding beneath his skin to inflict the most damage. Some of them are badly drawn, dull blades that tear on the way in and, though they may not do exactly what the spell was intended for, cause plenty of damage on their own.

Travis keeps up his cocky composure for the first few hours. Cleansings are designed to break him, to leave him in so much agony he'll have no recourse _but_ to flee back to Hell. And once he does, they'll slam the door shut behind him and lock it tight.

He has no intention of letting _that_ happen.

"So," he says jauntily, ignoring the tremble in his all-too-human limbs or the fire burning through his blood. "I remember thirteen of you guys the first time around. Where's Meredith with the magic hands?"

The leader of the group sneers at him, flipping through her book. "Meredith is purging herself of the taint from lying with _you_," she spits.

Travis clasps a hand to his chest. "Oh, that hurts. Really. _Taint_? She's the one who come onto me, you know."

"In order to get close and lay our trap. And now she is purifying herself to a state of grace."

"States of graces aren't all they're cracked up to be," he offers, because he knows an angel in a permanent state of grace and Wes is an annoying bastard at the best of times.

The leader glares at him and demands, "Cease talking, hellspawn," flicking another sigil his way.

It takes everything in his power to stay on his feet.

He doesn't know how much longer he can take this.

**XXXX**

Travis loses his composure when he loses track of time. When he can't tell if he's been here for hours or days or weeks, it's all a blur of pain and gloating faces and blinding lines of white fire.

That's when he goes down, huddling on his knees and clawing at the floor like it will ease the agony thrumming through him. He spits curses at the group, deadly invectives meant to torture and torment until death, but the words fly to the edge of the circle and stop.

He can't shift to his true form, ease the pain by getting out of this constricting body.

He can't make them _stop_.

He can't do _anything_ except what they want him to do; go home.

And that's the one thing he absolutely will not do.

"What day is it?" he pants during a lull, because holyfire burns even the ones wielding it and all spells take it out of the castors. They need to regroup, which gives him a moment to breathe.

The leader doesn't look up, muttering under her breath and practicing motions for her next nasty spell.

The woman to her right, mentally dubbed Flunkie number one, looks up. "It's Sunday morning," and Travis wants to cry. Sunday morning, which means there's still an _entire day_ he has to get through.

There's a part of him that wants to give in, a part that's longed for Hell ever since he got on this plane. Travis ignores that part most of the time, because the majority of him is in agreement; he does _not_ want to go back. But that tiny part…

He can't go. Not yet. Wes is coming. Wes _promised_, and angels keep their word.

He just has to wait.

**XXXX**

Travis doesn't know what hurts more; the sigils that are written correctly, or the ones that aren't.

Everything is fire.

**XXXX**

Travis remembers fire.

Travis remembers standing with his brothers, behind the brightest of them all, feeling their Father's rage wash over them. Their Father has always been light and warmth, but now the light is blinding and the warmth is the heat of a thousand suns.

Travis remembers being cast out, he and his brothers and all who followed the brightest one, and the fire washes through them. Not the cheery warmth of a candlelight, but the raging inferno of a wildfire, sweeping through, devouring everything and leaving destruction in its wake.

Travis remembers Falling, hurtling down. The fire burns his wings to ash and smoke, and though he tries to fly, though he tries to control his descent, he can't.

Travis remembers hitting the ground.

Travis remembers the fire leaving, burning out in his chest, and he lies there in pain, dazed and confused. He thinks the worst of it is over.

And then the ice comes.

**XXXX**

"What day is it?" Travis asks during another brief respite as they regroup, as the fire burns his flesh and the agony rages on.

"Does it matter?" the leader of the group says, flipping through her nasty little spell book.

"It might." Travis coughs and tastes blood in his mouth.

The woman glances at her watch. "It's Sunday."

"Oh."

Still Sunday.

Not yet. Not quite yet.

**XXXX**

Before there was sun and light and stars, there was Void. The Void was nothing; the Void was coldness.

That's what lives in his core. _Nothing_. The Void is inside him and he is nothing and he is _cold_.

Once, he was full of his Father's warmth and light and love, and it was warm. Then he Fell and it was all ripped away. The Void is absence of _everything_, and it is inside him, and his heart is made of ice.

Humans imagine Hell as fire and brimstone and eternal torment. To burn is the greatest horror they can imagine.

They're wrong. There are worse things than burning.

Travis hasn't truly felt warm since he Fell.

**XXXX**

It rises out of him, crawling from the cracks in his form. Ichor flows out of the lines they've drawn on his skin and freezes across his flesh, but the ice doesn't soothe the heat of the fiery pain they've wrought.

He shivers, curling in on himself, too far gone to care how it looks. His wings wrap around him, a protective barrier against the world, but that just makes them easier targets, feathers and bone and blood exposed to their holyfire charms.

All he can do is wait.

**XXXX**

"What day is it?" Travis asks for what seems like the thousandth time.

"Monday," Flunkie number one says without looking up from the spell book she's pouring over.

Travis lifts his head. "What time?"

Flunkie number two checks his watch. "Almost nine."

Travis drops his head back down.

And then he starts to laugh.

"What?" the cult leader demands, stomping over. "What's so funny?"

He smiles a rattlesnake grin. Three of them flinch.

"You're in trouble," Travis sing-songs with obvious glee.

"Oh yeah?" The cult leader draws herself up, crosses her arms. Unlike her friends, she's not worried. Totally confident in her circle. "You're trapped. What can you do, hellspawn?"

And Travis laughs and laughs.

"I'm not the one you need to be worried about."

**XXXX**

The thing is, Travis trusts Wes.

It's not something he advertises, but it's not something he says lightly either. Travis doesn't trust other people. Demons are, by nature, untrustworthy, and angels would usually rather stab than talk. There are humans, but they're more like cute pets than confidants; it's hard to trust someone when you can't ever reveal even a smidge of your true self to them.

But Travis trusts Wes implicitly. Maybe because Wes is so different from the other angels Travis has met. Because Wes was the first angel to put his sword down and start talking. Because Wes was the only one who looked beyond the smoke-stained wings to actually _see_ the angel he used to be.

Travis trusts Wes with his very existence.

This is the most important thing.

**XXXX**

Over the centuries, people have softened angels. They picture angels as pudgy babies with fluffy white wings who make people fall in love, or as majestic radiant beings spreading love and mercy.

Humans have forgotten that angels were made to enforce God's will on Earth. They've leveled cities and brought plagues. They are not kind, they are not gentle, they are not merciful. Angels are swords of fire forged in the heart of stars. They _burn_.

Travis is never more reminded of that fact than the moment Wes bursts through the door.

The doors explode inward in a cascade of burning wood and molten steel, and the angel walks through. Six feet of pure white light so bright it burns, with wings made of glass and glittering with a wildfire's fury. He carries a sword at his side, blue flames dancing across red-hot metal that doesn't melt.

Half of the cultists scream and run for another exit. The other half scream and claw at their eyes. Only the thinnest strands of Wes's human shell hold him in place, and angels weren't meant to be seen by mortal eyes.

The cult leader drops her head, squinting against the glare Wes is letting off. She flips through her spell book, finds the page she wants, and starts chanting. An exorcism, Travis recognizes, and he just laughs. _That's_ not going to work.

The leader shouts the last words of the spell, pointing at the fiery apparition, and…nothing happens.

For the first time, the woman looks shaken. "Why didn't it work?!" she screeches, stumbling back as Wes turns to face her. She stops just inches shy of the circle.

Travis leans casually against the barrier like it isn't agony to breathe or move or speak. "You used a demon exorcism," he says smugly. "That's not going to work. He's not a demon."

"Then what is it?!" the woman shrieks, clutching the spell book to her chest.

"You don't know? Religious type like you?" Travis feigns surprise. "What _are_ they teaching you in Catholic school these days?"

Wes takes a step towards her. The ground smolders in his wake.

"What is it?!" the cult leader screams again.

Travis laughs, a sound of vindictive, unholy glee. "That? That's an angel. And honey, you should _not_ have pissed him off."

**XXXX**

Travis got captured once, back a thousand years ago or so. A group of monks figured out who he was and tried to send him back to Hell—kind of like now, actually, without all the torture beforehand.

Wes saved him then, too, storming into the monastery and glowing in holy annoyance. Just annoyance, and he'd set half the cloister burning and caused one monk to go blind.

This…this is full-blown, divine wrath. Anyone who's read the Old Testament knows that their Father has a merciless temper, and oh, the angel is his Father's son.

Travis will admit to taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in the cult leader's terror. He's a demon—he's allowed petty, vindictive _schadenfreude_. She hurt him bad.

Wes points; the spell book in the woman's arms bursts into flames. The woman screams and tosses the burning pages away. She turns to run, but it's much too late for that—if she wanted to run, she should have bolted the second Wes burst through the door.

The angel grabs her by the neck, holds her in the air. "Mallory Invess," Wes intones in a voice like church bells and war horns. The woman makes a strangled sound, scrabbling at Wes's arm; her skin crackles and burns.

And then Wes draws back his sword, and Travis perks up, all mirth gone. That's not how this is supposed to go.

"Mallory Invess. You will be judged."

"Wes, _no_!" Travis throws himself at the barrier. His body screams with lightning—he ignores it. "You can't kill her!"

The sword freezes. The angel's head turns, his face is a mask of blank white light, but Travis can feel those sharp blue eyes going straight through him.

"Wrath," he says, desperate for anything to get through. "This is full-on wrath, babe. That's like, a bajillion points for me. At this point I'm already way ahead. Do you really want to add murder to the list and get even farther behind?"

A line of orange flashes across the angel's cheek. Good. If there's one thing Travis knows how to do, it's annoy Wes.

He pushes his advantage. "Do you know how long you'll be making this up? You'll be buying me lunch for forever." A thought occurs to him, and he forces a grin. "I will get to pick the radio station until the end of _time_."

The tip of the sword lowers an inch.

"Please," he begs in the old tongue, the first tongue. "Please, angel, don't kill her. For me."

The angel tilts his head, and there's too much light to catch even a glimpse of emotion. "Why?" he asks in the same tongue.

Travis swallows. "Because she's not worth it."

He doesn't know if he means it's not worth it for Wes, who could very well Fall if he kills a human without orders to do so, or if he means that she's so insignificant it'd be like squishing a bug.

Or maybe he means that killing her over _him_ isn't worth it. If Wes is going to start murdering humans, he should do it for a better reason than a failure of a demon who has been topside too long.

The angel continues staring at him, boring metaphorical holes through his skull. "You're wrong," he says, and despite the cadence of bells and horns, the words are almost gentle.

Wes turns back to the cult leader, and Travis closes his eyes. He's a demon but he doesn't want to see this, doesn't want to watch Wes murder a girl whose only crime was believing too fiercely—

There's a thump of a body hitting the ground, and the ring of steel on concrete.

Travis opens his eyes.

Mallory Invess sits at Wes's feet, looking dazed and shell-shocked. There's a white handprint around her throat, scars that will never fade. A reminder for the rest of her life that she was touched by an angel.

"Go," Wes orders, harsh and merciless. "Leave."

She goes.

Wes turns to Travis. Travis gives him a broken smile, all of a sudden feeling his pain again. No, pain is too mild a word. This is the Fall and Hell all over again.

"My hero," he jokes weakly, leaning against the barrier. He's about ready to go home now.

Wes scrapes the tip of his sword in an arch in front of him. Paint bubbles and melts, and the barrier falls.

Travis's legs aren't doing a very good job supporting him, but he doesn't collapse. Wes is there to catch him, fiery wings curling around him in a warm cocoon. For feathers made of fire and glass, it's surprisingly soft and warm and wonderful. Steam erupts where they touch, Wes's flames evaporating the ice coating his skin.

It should hurt. It doesn't. It's either because Wes doesn't want to hurt him or because Travis is in too much agony to feel any more pain added to the mix.

"Sorry," he mumbles into the angel's shoulder. He'll get up in a minute. Just a minute.

Hot hands run over his damaged wings, his frost-bitten skin.

"You don't get to do that," Wes snaps, and Travis can understand why mere humans jump to obey the words of angels. Even a simple command becomes an unshakeable edict with the weight of the Lord behind it. "The only one who gets to kill you is me."

Wait, what?

"_That's_ the best thingyou can come up with?" Travis demands indignantly, struggling to pull back as much as Wes's embrace will allow. "The hell kind of thing is that to say—"

The angel bends down and seals their mouths together.

Travis has been kissed before. He's really good at it, if he's going to be honest. He's kissed men and women and he's enjoyed every moment. But that's all just pleasures of the flesh. This is so much _more_.

It feels like lava pours across his tongue, like Wes is melting down his throat and into his body. It seeps through him, golden light thick as honey, expanding from head to foot to the very tips of his wings. Where Wes's light touches, the pain disappears.

For the first time since Falling, Travis feels truly warm.

It's glorious.

Then the ice in his core rises up, fighting the honeyed light, _hotcold_ and _fireice_ and _lightshadow_, a battle raging between them, _inside_ him.

Where the ice and fire meet, it creates steam, building and building and building inside his tiny shell of a body. And when steam builds up enough pressure, it eventually explodes.

The bonds holding Travis's human body together strain and pull, and Travis—

(_there's a sound like windchimes and knives and bells, calling his name)_

—explodes.

**XXXX**

Everything is white.

He floats, and it's warm.

**XXXX**

He wakes, briefly, to the sound of water. It takes a thousand years to open his eyes and the moment he does he wishes he hadn't.

He groans and closes his eyes.

"You're awake?"

Travis forces his eyes open again. Wes stands at the foot of his bed looking mildly concerned, a toothbrush in his hand and toothpaste in his mouth. He looks much too comfortable to be in Travis's apartment, dressed in a white undershirt and silk pajama pants and nothing else.

Travis has a thousand questions. What he manages to say is a strained, "Whu?"

Wes rolls his eyes and sticks his toothbrush back in his mouth. "Go to sleep, Travis," he mumbles, barely intelligible due to the toothbrush but also because he's walking back into the bathroom as he says it.

Travis closes his eyes. Not because he's obeying Wes's order, because he's not. It's just a very good idea right now.

The water turns off. Thirty seconds later the bed dips. Travis's eyes fly open.

"Wes?" he says, and even that much effort is too much.

Wes crawls under the covers like it's the most natural thing in the world. "What's up?"

Travis blinks. He aches in every fibre of his being and his brain feels like it's full of cotton and he wants nothing more than to drift back into sleep but Wes is in his bed and that's strange in the best way. It's _important_.

"Why?" Single syllable words are working. Conversation one word at a time. He can handle this.

Wes settles on his belly with a sigh, crossing his arms across the pillow and dropping his head on top of it. "Go to sleep, Travis," he orders again, but softer this time, more gentle. "We'll talk later."

Travis wants to know _now_, but the lure of sleep is too charming. He closes his eyes, exhales, and like that, he's gone.

**XXXX**

He dreams of feathers and windchimes and wings made of glass, wrapping around him and keeping him warm.

He feels safe.

He hasn't felt that way in a long time.

It's good.

**XXXX**

The next time he wakes, he's a little more alert and a little more coherent.

"What happened?" he asks, propped up against half a dozen pillows he doesn't remember owning.

Wes bustles in with soup and promptly starts trying to pour it all down Travis's throat. "Eat first. Get up your strength. Then we'll talk."

"I'm fine, Wes," Travis whines, even though lifting his arm leaves him feeling shaky and weak. Aftermaths of being brutally tortured, always fun.

"You're not fine. And unless you want to pop back Downstairs for a quick recharge, I suggest you eat your soup."

Travis does not want to go Downstairs. He eats the soup.

**XXXX**

"Alright," Travis says, once the dishes have been cleared away and he's settled back in the nest of pillows. "What happened?"

"You really should sleep some more—"

"Wes. I'm not sleeping until you tell me what happened."

The blonde sighs, hands on his hips. "Fine, you stubborn jerk. You've been asleep for three days healing from your injuries, and it'll probably take another three or four before you're back to even seventy-five percent. That's what you get for keeping things to yourself. If you'd told me about these cultists beforehand I could have helped and we would have had this solved—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're a miracle worker and I'd be lost without you," Travis interrupts before Wes can get too far into his rant. "I meant what happened _after_. With the kiss."

Wes turns pink, right down his neck. It's adorable.

"That was…um…"

"If you say that was nothing I'm going to get up and punch you. I don't care if I fall over afterwards, you'll still be punched in the face."

"It wasn't _nothing_," Wes snaps in a _Don't you dare get up, I will sit on you if I have to_ sort of voice. "It was very definitely something. It just…wasn't what I expected to happen."

Travis frowns. "What do you mean? You kissed me. I kissed you. Seems pretty much like what's supposed to happen."

"The rest of it wasn't supposed to happen."

"The rest of it? You mean the bits with the steam and fire and ice and you pouring your essence into my body? _That_ rest of it?"

Wes flushes a deeper pink. Travis wishes he could strip the shirt of the angel's body, see how far down the color goes.

"Yes. That rest of it."

Travis blinks. "But Wes. _What. Happened?_"

Wes sighs, runs a hand over his face. "Fine. But I blame you for everything, you know."

Before Travis can ask, Wes turns on the TV.

**XXXX**

"—_investigators have determined the cause of the explosion to be a gas leak. Authorities are inspecting the other warehouses in the area for other signs of a leak. It is still uncertain what, exactly, caused the spark that ignited the gas in the first place—"_

Travis sits up. "Hey, isn't that where I—?"

"Yes."

The demon sends a soppy grin at the angel. "You blew a warehouse up for me? You do know the way to a boy's heart."

The look Wes sends back is scathing in condemnation. "I didn't blow up the warehouse, idiot. And I certainly didn't do it for you."

Travis sends a pointed look at the TV.

He's gratified to see Wes blush again. "That wasn't _just_ me. That was us. Our kiss."

There's a moment of silence as Travis processes. Nope, still not making sense.

"You're saying _we_ blew up the warehouse?"

"Yes."

"No, I don't think so." Travis frowns. "I like explosions. I think I would have remembered that."

"You'd kind of passed out by then."

"Because of the kiss?"

"Because of your injuries, dumbass"

"Oh."

"And also because of the kiss."

Travis sits back, staring at his partner. "Maybe you should start at the beginning, angel, 'cuz you're not making sense."

Wes sighs and waves a hand—the TV goes dark. "Are you sure you don't want to sleep some more?"

Absolutely not. Travis _has_ to know anything that can make Wes blush so much.

"Wes. Spill."

"_Fine_." With a long-suffering groan, Wes crawls on the bed, stretching out next to Travis. This is an unusual set of circumstances, but it's not like Travis is _complaining_, so he doesn't say anything in case it makes Wes self-conscious and he gets up.

"Alright, look," Wes says, "we're not made for this plane. This world is for mortals. That's why we have to wear these human shells while we're here."

"Duh." Travis rolls his eyes. "That's like Divine Beings 101."

"Right," Wes confirms. "Well, in the warehouse, both our human shells were strained—we were both just too close to the surface. And then we kissed."

"You kissed me," Travis corrects.

"You kissed back," Wes snaps. "_We_ kissed. The 'steam and fire and ice', as you put it, was us…joining, in a way. It was too much, so the earth tried to expel us out of this plane. Hence the explosion."

Travis mulls on this. "So, basically, we had sex."

Wes turns cherry. "That's not really—"

"We had sex," Travis interrupts gleefully, "and the _earth itself_ tried to kick us out because we were too hot to handle."

Wes gives him a flat stare. "That's not what I said at all."

"That is totally what you said." Travis leans back, beaming proudly at his partner. "Good for you, man. I mean, I could set the world on fire if I tried, but who knew you had it in you?"

Wes hits him in the face with a pillow.

**XXXX**

It takes two more days before Travis can get out of bed without falling over. He's an immortal demon, but he took a lot of damage, and he can only recharge so fast without heading Downstairs for a boost.

Luckily, he has his own nursemaid to give him TLC. Aside from the time he's at work or on grocery runs, Wes is always just _there_, hovering in doorways or sitting next to him on the couch or crawling into bed with him.

"What's with all this?" Travis finally asks on the third day. "Why are you platonic-sleeping with me?"

Wes pauses, halfway into bed. "I can stop if you don't like it," he says, already retreating.

"Wow, masterful evasion. You weren't subtle at _all_." Travis leans over, grabs Wes and drags him back into bed. "Of course I like it, dumbass. I'm just wondering _why_."

Wes gives him that look, the one that says _You are officially the dumbest person on the planet_. "Think about it. I'm sure you'll come up with something."

Travis wants to push it, but Wes is settling against his side, warm as a furnace, and Travis is too content to keep questioning.

**XXXX**

The day of the explosion, a kind Samaritan brought Mallory Invess to St. Mary's Asylum. She was wild-eyed and gibbering about angels and demons.

The rest of her cultists didn't make it out unscathed. Half of them were blind or close to it, three of them had nervous breakdowns, and one had gone off to join the priesthood.

They'd all been visited in their dreams by a glowing vision with wings of glass and light and a sword sheathed in flames. The angel made it very, _very_ clear just what would happen to them if they ever tried anything supernatural again.

"You did that for me?" Travis coos when he finds out. "Darling, you're so good to me."

"I know," Wes smirks, and Travis wants nothing more than to kiss that smug look off his face.

Wes heads off to work before he can.

**XXXX**

Travis really wants to go back to the kissing portion of things. That was pretty damn awesome, even if he did pass out in the middle.

And the sex, they should totally have sex again (it was absolutely sex no matter how much Wes denies it). And maybe they can do it without the world trying to explode them, that would be cool.

He would have thought the Florence Nightengale routine and constant sleeping together meant Wes was just waiting for Travis to finish healing up before making a move.

But Wes is holding back and Travis doesn't know why.

He doesn't like it.

**XXXX**

There's no fanfare when Travis returns from his week-long vacation. There _is_ a lot of snickering aimed his way. He doesn't find out why until lunch.

"Why'd people think I had the clap this week?"

Wes doesn't bother looking up. "I didn't say anything of the sort. I told them you were taking a few personal days for extreme exhaustion."

Travis stares at him. "Seriously? That's practically code for 'something awkward and embarrassing happened and I don't want to talk about it'."

"Is it?" Wes glances up, frowns a little. "That would explain all the vaguely innuendo-filled questions I got."

"What did you say?" Travis asks with no amount of trepidation.

"I may have admitted you felt a burning sensation."

"Why the hell would you say _that_?"

Wes smiles serenely. "Well, it's true, isn't it?" And Travis honestly can't tell right now if Wes sincerely has no idea or if he's just being an asshole.

"You couldn't have just said I had the flu?"

"You used the flu as an excuse last time you wanted a few days off from being human. I wanted to switch it up."

"That was like, a year ago. It _is_ possible for people to get the same illness again."

"Oh, really?" Wes widens his eyes dramatically. "Is it?"

And now Travis is sure Wes is being an asshole.

"Wes and I had sex last week," Travis hollers, because he's not above petty revenge. It also has the benefit of being true.

Aside from Wes choking on air, the reactions are lack-luster at best.

"Congrats," Amy calls from her desk. "It's about time."

"Did you share the burning sensation?" Kate asks with way too much glee. "You really should use protection next time."

The final blow is delivered by the captain who, as he's passing by, says, "There are forms for that, boys."

"Why would you even _say_ that?" Wes hisses, eye twitching.

Travis smiles sweetly and puts on his best innocent face (which is much better than anything Wes could come up with, he's had so much more practice). "Well, it's true, isn't it?"

Wes drops his head in his hands with a groan. "I should send you back to Hell myself, you bastard," he grumbles.

Travis just laughs. "You wouldn't do that. You love me too much."

**XXXX**

(Even with all the clues staring him in the face, it still takes him another month to get it.)

**XXXX**

"So how does this work?" he finally asks.

"How does what work?" Wes asks back. He's standing in Travis's kitchen chopping vegetables like he's always belonged there.

Travis props his chin on his hands, watching Wes work. "You. Me. Us. This adorable domesticity and the staggering lack of hot monkey sex we've been having."

Wes gives him a mournful look. "I'm sorry, but even with you, I don't think I want to be having hot monkey sex."

"You'd like it if you tried it," Travis leers, waggling his eyebrows. Wes isn't impressed.

"Seriously, though, what is it? Is it because we're on opposite sides? Demon and angel, Romeo and Juliet through the ages."

"It has nothing to do with that," Wes says, which is slightly a relief because that had been Travis's biggest worry, that Wes had come to his senses and gotten cold feet.

"Then _what_?" Travis hates to sound like he's whining, but he really doesn't understand. " 'Cuz, hun, I'm really getting mixed signals here."

Wes sighs and sets down the knife. He doesn't quite look at Travis. "Look. I am willing to have a relationship with you. But that's what I would want. A _relationship_, not what you usually do."

And _oh_, Travis really should have seen that one coming.

"Wes, that's…" Travis leans forward, reaching out to grab Wes's hand. "That's just the work. Don't get me wrong, I love my work. But, Wes, in terms of anything _real…_there's only ever been you."

Lifelong enemies or lifelong friends or more, Wes has always been the only option. Because Wes is the only one who will always be there. Everyone else…

They're all just little mayflies, and Travis adores them, but they're not _forever_.

Wes's shoulders relax, and a smile tugs at his lips. "Well, if it's for the _work_, then…" Because Wes understands about the work.

"Work is just work." Travis gets up, slides around the counter to wrap his arms around Wes's waist. "You're special, angel." He leans down—they've worked it out and this is definitely a kissing moment.

It's not as mind-blowing and earth shattering as the kiss in the warehouse, but that was special circumstances and this is still pretty damn magical.

He trails kisses down Wes's jaw, sucking gently at the angel's neck. Wes put a hand on his chest and sighs. "Travis, wait…"

"I hope you're not telling me to stop, babe, because I'm not down with that."

"Not _stop_, but there's a certain order to these things…"

"Certain what?" Travis is willing to ignore that. And then he realizes what Wes probably means and pulls back with a grimace. "Dude, I am _not _marrying you."

**XXXX**

Once, sometime in the tenth century, or maybe it was the twelfth, Travis asked Wes why he kept getting married. "They just get scared if they find out," he said, "or they think you're crazy. Besides, they all die in the end, so what's the point."

Wes had shrugged and said, "I like them. And I like being near them, for a little while."

Travis had thought about it. Then he'd said, "Are you sure you're not marrying them just so you can get laid?"

That had earned him a punch in the face, and Wes had refused to speak to him for a century.

Seven hundred years later, when Wes introduced Travis to Alex, Travis just smiled and said it was very nice to meet her.

He still didn't get it, even when Wes tried to explain.

"It about companionship, Travis. About having someone there when you go home at night. It's not _just_ about sex."

"Are you sure?" Travis frowned. "Aren't companionship and sex the same thing?"

"Wow." Wes threw his hands up in the air and shook his head. "I'm not even talking to you anymore."

"My way is easier!" he called as Wes stomped off, and Wes didn't speak to him for like a whole hour.

**XXXX**

He thinks he understands a little better now, the difference.

He's still not going to get married, though.

Not even to Wes.

**XXXX**

"I don't want you to _marry_ me," Wes rolls his eyes. "Marriage is a human institution. It would be meaningless in the extreme for us to get married."

Well, okay then.

"Then I have no idea what you're talking about."

Wes sighs, leaning against the counter. "I don't want marriage. I just want…a promise. That what we have will be _ours_."

Travis purses his lips and thinks on it. "What about work?"

Wes waves a hand. "You can work. Just don't get attached to them. Be attached to me."

"Oh, I can get attached to you, babe," Travis leers, wriggling his hips. Wes rolls his eyes and gives him a shove.

"It's not about _sex_, Travis, it's about—"

"Companionship, I know, I remember that conversation." The demon takes a breath. "So basically you're looking for an _emotional_ commitment, right?" Travis says, just to clarify.

Wes's eyes drop. "I know that's not really your thing—"

"Wes, angel." Travis presses a finger under Wes's chin, drawing the blonde's gaze back up to him. "You're the only one who could get me talking about emotional commitments here. I promise, it's always been you."

Something glitters in those sharp blue eyes, and a smile tugs at the blonde's lips. "And I promise that for me, it will always be you. You're special."

"You're pretty damn special yourself, babe," Travis purrs, leaning in for another kiss.

It's sloppy and messy and wonderfully human, and it's perfect. And then Travis pulls away. "But we can still have sex, right?"

Wes rolls his eyes. "Yes, Travis, if we're going to do this we can still have sex."

Travis lights up. "Then what are we standing around in the kitchen for? Let's go!" He eagerly tugs the other male towards the bedroom.

Wes follows with a little laugh. "What's the rush?"

There is no rush. They've got until the end of days, and if Travis has his way, he'll spend it right there by Wes's side.

But he hasn't had sex in over a month because he's been waiting for the angel to make a move, so he just throws a grin over his shoulder and says, "Babe, I'm gonna show you what hot monkey sex is all about."

Wes rolls his eyes and grumbles a little.

But he lets himself be pulled along, so Travis counts it as a win.

**XXXX**

It's just as mind-blowing as the first time, with less _literal_ explosions.

He was right. Wes totally enjoys hot monkey sex.

**XXXX**

And then things…don't change.

They still go to their human jobs and live their human lives. They still bicker constantly and have their little competitions.

Wes still fights the good fight and tries to gain souls for a game he's never going to win. Travis still has meaningless relationships with women who don't know the truth so he can add them to his reports.

And at the end of the day, Wes goes home to Travis's place. They cook together, they watch TV together, and at night, they sleep together, both platonically and not. They wrap each other in their wings and they hold each other close and they…steam.

It's different. But nothing's really changed. Why should it? This is just how they've always been.

They have an Understanding. The underlying factors in that Understanding have shifted, but it's still the same Understanding that's kept them together for twenty-five hundred years, and it'll keep them going for another twenty-five hundred more.

One day, things will end. The final battle will take place and they'll have to take sides (unless Travis can drag Wes down to his level before then).

But that day is not today, and until then, there's nowhere else Travis would rather be.

**XXXX**

Once a year, Travis and Wes take four days off work to write up their reports, because Wes is a punctual over-achiever who thinks the higher-ups actually care. It's a pain in the butt, but Travis doesn't complain because he gets a four-day vacation every twelve months.

When Wes picks the place, he has a pattern. He chooses places that are quiet, remote, far from the hustle and bustle of people. Places close to nature. Places that bore Travis out of his mind, but he sticks around because they have an Understanding and also because Wes puts up with Travis's choices, so Travis might as well return the favor.

This trip, they're sitting in a cabin somewhere in the middle of Russia, surrounded on all sides by snow and trees and wilderness. The wind whistles outside, and the crackle of the fire is the only sound in the small room.

Wes is sitting in front of the fire, wings out, and it's not just the firelight causing him to glow. There's a steady burn from underneath the other male's skin, dancing with the flames in the fireplace.

It's beautiful.

Travis looks down at his report and says, "Hey Wes, you're good with words. What's the best way to say I'm boinking an angel?"

Because there are many things Travis is not yet willing to say aloud, and that is one of them.

"If you put that in your report, I'll smother you with a pillow," Wes says without even looking over.

Travis just rolls his eyes. "I'm _not_ putting that in my report, dummy, that's why I'm asking what to put." He pauses. Leers. "Although if I _did_ put that, I'm sure I'd get a commendation or something. Bet no one else has managed to shag an angel before."

"Don't you _dare_." Wes frowns, tapping his lips with his pen. "Put down that you are…trying to tempt a member of the Holy Host into a life of sin and wantonness."

"Oh, that's good." Travis bends over and starts scribbling. "What are you putting?" He half expects Wes to deny it, because somehow he imagines it can't look good for an angel to be actively sleeping with a demon. Wes would hide it if only to protect him, he would, no matter how much he would deny it.

Wes surprises him by saying, "I'm showing a member of the Fallen the grace and salvation inherent in true love."

Travis is glad he doesn't blush, but something warms in his chest, and there's a stupid goofy smile on his face. "Yeah? That's almost…hey, wait a minute." The smile turns to a frown. "Why am I _'trying' _to tempt you and you're _'showing' _me?"

"Because unlike you, I will actually succeed in my objective." Wes turns and gives Travis one of those smugly superior smirks. "I'll redeem you long before you successfully tempt me."

In response, Travis throws a pillow and hits Wes in the face.

"That's what you think," he taunts, and the gauntlet is thrown.

Wes glances over, slants one eyebrow upward. "Is that a challenge?"

"You bet your ass it's a challenge." Travis leans back with a rakish grin, open and inviting.

Wes accepts the invitation. He stacks his report in a pile and slides over to Travis, straddling the demon's waist.

"I'm going to win," Wes purrs, rucking Travis's shirt up and running hot hands across his belly. He leans down close, breath washing over Travis's lips, glittering wingtips of light brushing smoky feathers.

"Yeah?" Travis murmurs. "Why's that?"

Wes just grins and leans down, pressing their lips together. Travis groans appreciatively, wrapping his wings up and around and pulling Wes close. Sparks flare where they touch, fireice and shadowlight and smokeglass. It's a fraction of their joining in the warehouse, but it's just as mind-blowing as before. Travis never thought he'd get this much.

When they pull apart, Travis grins up with a wicked grin. "Still so confident? Lust is one of the big ones, you know. From there it's just a short step to sin and wantonness."

Wes hums. "I'm still going to win," the angel sing-songs, going in for another kiss.

It's a good minute into the kiss before Travis's eyes snap open. He jerks back, pushing Wes so he can stare at the angel's face.

"_Love_?"

"Hmm?" Wes murmurs, eyes half-lidded.

"You _love_ me?"

The angel purses his lips. "I didn't say _that_."

"You did!" Travis smacks his partner's shoulder. "You said you'd show me 'the grace inherent in true love'. You _love_ me!"

Wes gives a beatific smile. "I love all of my Father's creations equally. Even those that have fallen out of His favor."

Travis scowls. "That's a lie. Most everything annoys you."

Innocent eyes don't really work on Wes. He tries it anyway, "Now Travis, it _is_ possible to love things that annoy you. How else would I put up with you?"

"So you _do_ love me!" Travis exclaims, sitting up. Wes comes up with him.

"_Hypothetically_," Wes says, primly folding his wings against his back, "if I loved you, then I'm sure we would have made some sort of vow. A promise to one another, you could say. And if we _did_, then none of this is a sin in our Father's eyes. _If_ I loved you."

And then he smirks.

Travis gapes. "That's…you…" And all he can do is shake his head. "You sneaky bastard." But he doesn't sound angry. He sounds almost admiring. "You cheated."

Wes's eyes widen, feigning surprise. "Now that _would_ be a sin."

"You rigged the game."

"So?" Wes leans forward, all faux-innocence gone. "That just means you'll have to work that much harder to win. Not that you'll beat me. But you can try."

"I have taught you well," Travis laughs, wrapping Wes up in his arms and falling back on the couch. "Two-point-five millennia and you've finally out-tricked me. You are turning out to be a very bad angel."

"And you are a very good demon," Wes whispers against his mouth.

Travis grins into his lips and goes in for more.

**XXXX**

Travis will live forever until the end of time. This he knows.

For almost twenty five hundred years, he's imagined spending forever at Wes's side.

This is something he won't tell Wes.

Not yet, at least.

He has all of eternity to confess.

**XXXX**

Travis runs his hand down Wes's back, moving over smooth planes and sharp angles. His fingers are dark against the pale skin, and he can't help but smirk at the contrast.

"Did we ever stand together?" he muses, fingers catching in the air above Wes's shoulder blades. There's the thinnest of slits in the reality of space, right where Wes's wings would appear if he unfurled them. An invisible gap, but Travis knows it's there. "Before, I mean?"

Wes shivers under his touch, rolling his shoulders, and Travis feels feathers under his fingertips. "No," the angel murmurs into his arms, peering at him with one glassy blue eye. "I never met you before the garden."

"Hmm." Travis lets his hand drag down Wes's back again. "A shame. Could have been fun."

Wes props himself up on his elbows, looking mildly annoyed. "You would have made a mess of everything."

"And you would have picked it back up," Travis says with a grin, running his fingers along the microscopic slits above Wes's back again.

With another roll of his shoulders, Wes lets his wings out, glittering rainbows of color and glass. Mission accomplished, Travis happily plunges his hands into the shimmering depths. "It's a shame," Travis says, feathers rustling under his hands with a sound like windchimes and knives. "We would have been awesome partners, baby."

As though he knew that was Travis's plan all along, Wes gives him a dirty look, but he drops back down and rests his head on his arms, letting Travis play. "We are awesome partners," Wes murmurs drowsily, eyes falling half-closed.

Travis leans down, presses a quick kiss to the angel's lips. "Damn straight we are."

The edge of one glimmering wing whaps him in the side of the head for the curse. Travis just laughs.

**XXXX**

Forever never looked so good.

**XXXX**

In the beginning, there is a garden, and a tree, and two humans who don't know the meaning of deception. The serpent speaks his silver words, the humans eat the forbidden fruit, and the skies tremble with the highest of wrath.

After the dust settles, the serpent peers out of his hiding place. The coast is clear, and no lightning falls from the sky to roast him; he winds his way up a tree and slithers over the wall. The drop would kill a normal snake, but he's far from normal.

There's still no one in sight. Cackling quietly, he slithers away from the wall.

Six inches of flaming steel embeds itself in the ground next to his head.

"Hey!" the snake-shaped-demon squawks, twisting away from the fiery blade. "Watch where you're sticking that thing. You singed my scales!"

"You." The angel looms over him, wings spread, burning violent red like an angry volcano. "You have caused a ruckus."

"No I didn't," the snake says quickly, indulging in this new-found thing called '_lying_'. "Wasn't me. You've got the wrong guy."

The angel's face twists, and the molten colors of his form look like they're about to erupt. He raises his sword.

"Hey, hey, hey!" The demon writhes out of range, coiling defensively. "Need I remind you that _you_ let me slip by? None of this would have happened if you'd been doing your due diligence."

The sword freezes in mid-air. There's an embarrassed twitch to the blazing wings.

"Haha!" The snake wiggles in glee. "Nothing can you say to _that_, huh? Sucker!"

The angel turns his back, blatantly ignoring him and staring across the sweeping desert vista. The snake rises up on his coils, watching the two tiny dark figures racing away from the garden.

"Aww," he coos, "they look so sad."

"They have sinned in the eyes of the Lord," the angel says stiffly.

The snake slants a sideways glance up at the angel. "Yeah, but don't you feel a _little_ bit sorry for them?"

The angel's shoulders stiffen, wings furling against his back. "No. They have made their choice."

The demon lets out a little hiss. "Well. You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?"

The angel doesn't say anything. The snake sighs, settle back down on his coils, watching the tiny little people get farther and farther away from paradise.

Personally, he doesn't know what was so great about the Garden. Seemed awfully boring from his perspective.

But then, he knows it's only going to get worse for the little human people, out there in the big wide world. He remembers what it was like, waking up after the Fall, alone with the entire galaxy in front of him and no Paradise in sight.

For a second, just a little bit, the demon feels bad.

After a long minute of silence, the angel says, "You're an infantile human."

The snake looks up, all bad feelings swept away by incredulity. "Really? _That's_ the best insult you could come up with? You spent all that time thinking and _that's_ the best you got?"

The angel does not look down. The angel also does not look sheepish, but it radiates off his every glittering mote.

The demon sighs and shakes his head. "You have a lot to learn, my brother. _So much_ to learn."

"I have no interest in learning from you."

"Your loss." If snakes could shrug, he would. Instead, he just slithers off, calling back, "See you around, brother!"

"Just keep slithering away, you scaly vermin," the angel hollers back, looking not the least chagrined at exchanging petty insults with his Fallen brethren.

The demon chuckles all the way home.

**XXXX**

That's their first exchange.

It pretty much sums up their entire relationship.

**OOO**

**Title is from a poem called **_**A Shropshire Lad**_** by A.E. Housman.**

**I loved writing this, and I really hoped you enjoyed reading it. I would love to hear what you thought; reviews, comments, and constructive criticism are always welcome!**

**Until next time~!**


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